Road Trippin'

I like road trips. The two things that I like about road trips? The waiting to go phase and about the first hour of the trip. After that, I hate road trips and will act as though I never had an affinity for even the remote idea of a road trip. But, that first hour is such a nice diversion from my everyday life, or is it?


To start, for my husband's blood pressure to resemble anything but shape of Applachian Mountain Range, I don't usually drive. For some reason, his driving pattern of "as fast as you can go while not signaling anything and slam on your breaks periodically" keeps his blood pressure at a steady rate. This pattern is always followed by the statement, "I'm not the one that's ever had a wreck, Meleia". I usually think, but don't say, well statistics would clearly show your time could be near, not to mention the way you drive.

His driving means I get Libby settled in her "back suite" as I fondly refer to it. We could put that backseat on vrbo.com and run a tight race with some of the advertised cottages....sleeps 3, tv/dvr, cold drinks, lots of entertainment. Then, I put my huge sunglasses on. i.e. The ones that are the total opposite color and shape from the Kate Gosselin white, plastic huge square sunglasses that go with the red-pink clash, mini skirt outfit.....you know the picture. My faithful sunglasses are what allow me to view everything along the way and to gaze off into thought without being asked what I'm thinking.



Traveling takes money, which is why we don't. It's so unlike my Nanny Ree's favorite saying, "have 'drawers' will travel". At seven years old, I knew the saying, but hadn't a clue what she lightheartedly meant. At 33, I know what drawers means and I know it takes more than drawers to travel.


Anyway, every blue moon, we plan a little road trip. I can't much tell you about the planning phases because my form of planning is to say, "let's go somewhere that we can see....or somewhere we can get....." and that starts the process with sbridenstine. He budgets it out to a tee, spreadsheets it up and before too long the Purchase Order is processed and we are on our way. (somewhat exaggerated, there).


Here's the magic of that first hour...........you're driving--well, riding, along and you begin to look at things in a way you don't look at them on your normal beaten path. Obviously, there are times when you really "eye" those houses on your neighborhood street and harbor those same questions that you have on a road trip, but far too little. Those thoughts like...."I wonder who lives in that house..how the heck do those folks live like that, or awww, that person drives a bus...wonder what their neighbors think about them parking it in their yard...." Those random "wonders", those thoughts that would lead you to waltz right up to their door and ask if it weren't for speeding along at 75 mph.


A perfect example is when I see a school. I think, "you know, my world revolves even if that school is scoring X or even if that school does Y" and it puts my sometimes "school tizzies" into perspective.


I really like analyzing the community and thinking how it's somewhat like an anthill. The ants busy along doing what makes their hill survive, doing what they know and not until someone disturbs it do the ants realize there's a whole world out there or at least a reminder of why they stay in their little circle of existence.


Do you think that's how we are? Do you think, we as Daltonians or Georgians or whateverians, don't even notice the things in other places that make them matter? Why is it that things that make a world of difference to us don't make a bit of difference to the passerby?


I bet that's why I can't be on a road trip more than an hour before I'm tired of it. I try to analyze way too much!


There used to be this show on CBS Saturday Mornings that showed a guy open a phonebook, run his finger down the page and lands on a name that he called and met with to show the point that "everyone has a story". I loved that show segment. If it were on 24 hours, 7 days a week, I'd have wasted away the remainder of my life because I'd still be sitting there in absolute amazement at people's stories. There was another guy that did documentaries about living in people's lives for a period of time. He did one where he lived on minimum wage. It was fascinating to me. It was kinda what I invited Oprah to do a couple of blogs ago. When her people call my people, 'cause you know she must be amongst my five faithfuls, I'll have a whole list of them for her to try.

Think along your drives. Wonder about those around you who have their own little universe of issues spilling out.

Twice!? In ONE day??

I bet you thought that title was something to reckon with. You probably thought a true yummy secret was about to come out, however, nope. The title just refers to the fact that I am blogging twice in one day. I'd promise this one would be short, but I don't really know until I get it all written out, and then I don't look back. My sister said she doesn't like my new blog layout. She says the colors are difficult to see and the posts I've written as of late are too long. So, FOCUS, Sanna. Good thing these posts are free to readers or I might have to give a pooh about what readers think of me/posts.

I try not to be a bragger. However, today, is a BIG day!!! As a high school senior, I had no idea what I DIDN'T want to be after college. I just knew that pretty much anything captured my fancy. Therefore, when it was time to apply for scholarships, and my grades were definitely good enough, I chose not to apply for any. I just couldn't bring myself to write about something like it was my "forever choice". I couldn't write essays for scholarships I didn't REALLY want. There was no way I was going to try to convince an unknown audience I had a desire to do something I really didn't have a desire for. So, a few automatic college scholarship letters came in the mail, as I'm sure they do with everyone and I didn't reply. I would see the award amount and compare it to what the college would cost with the award and still feel that it wasn't something I wanted to even try for. I decided to attend the local university because it was a good school and a better use of my "money" if I didn't know for sure what I wanted to do. My mom was just proud I didn't cringe at the thought of more schooling and would help me with gas money, clothes and extras that I wanted when she could. My dad felt that if I wasn't going to get out of college and earn a six figure income that it was useless for me to go. So, I decided that I would start at UTC and just see what happened.

Gosh, the days were long and difficult. My first memory of college, which should have been a sign of hard times to come was that I can remember getting a parking space that was by the arena and my first class being at 8 by Memorial Auditorium. I thought 8 was a nice late start compared to my high school start time that was in the 7 am hour time frame. So, trudging to classes carrying books that were heavy and pricey stunk. Nothing about college was fun nor easy. However, I had watched a video in the Financial Aid office that said if I quit college or even took a break, I'd have to pay back the money and it would be hard to start back. So, I stuck it through. Year one---learned what "study" meant and that it didn't mean "no homework". Year two---learned I had better try to take classes that would help me figure out what I wanted to do. Year three---went to the career planning office and took an interest survey that showed I'd do well in social work, teaching or anything with elderly people. Shortly after that test, I began my classes in the education department. I busted my butt and worked two jobs to get through years three and four, and took as many classes as I could to graduate on time. Year four---was already dreading the student loan payments that were sure to start upon my graduation. Due to that dread, I never took out another student loan. Steven and I paying for my undergraduate loans and his made for lots of nights eating Rice-A-Roni and Hamburger Helper. We paid for our graduate schooling as we went. I'll be starting back in Fall of 2010 and will pay as I go because I do not heart student loans.

Well, guess what?! MY UNDERGRADUATE LOANS ARE FREAKIN' PAAAAAAID OFFFFFF! Wahooo! Here's a dear john letter to my student loans. Pardon the lack of, a-hemmmm, excitement.

Dear Student Loans,

We took you out in June of 1994 and carried you on our back until June of 2009. Kiss our butts and never come back! Stop the auto bank draft and do as "DX the wrestler" tells people.

Best regards,
Steven Bridenstine, MBA and Meleia P. Bridenstine, M.Ed

Dear Oprah, Shuuuuuut Up. Thanks, Meleia

I know that I just committed a terrible act in telling the Queen of Goodwill and Charity to shuuuuut up. But, seriously, Oprah, shuuuuut up. This directive has been coming on for a couple of weeks. It all started when our TV was tuned in to her show and I was doing something else while listening. I overheard that the topic of the show which went with her ongoing theme of "Live Your Best Life". Oprah went on to lament to a person on the show, who was jobless, that he should "live his best life, pray more..." I overheard Oprah's voice trail off as I thought about how she is so out of touch and people actually listen to her in masses hoping to get a smidgen of some kind of "insight" as to what they should do in their lives. Ugh. Oprahhhhh, shuuuuuut up.

Steven used to have the hot sauce called, "Nothin' hotter than a scorned woman". I kind of wondered if a scorned Oprah might could identify better with people if she had to maybe not be jobless, but try living on minimum wage, throw in a medical problem of two, and combine that with a child who saaaaaay is oppositionally defiant. Think Oprah could "live her best life, listen to her inner voice....."?

I know that faith is truly tried and exemplified when all is not well, when all you have is God and you learn that He is all you need. I'm sure Oprah had lots of things in her childhood that helped her connect with that "voice" or "best life vision". I'm thankful for her and am sure the world would be a better place if she could be cloned. However, in this economy, Oprah, unless you are giving the person a job or some type of life training/skill, shuuuuuut up.

Thanks,
Meleia

My Favorite Car

I would say I just made a HUGE mistake, but I can't call it a mistake, I think it's actually the beginnings of a very bad trend. I think you can only call something a mistake if you did that thing completely oblivious to the outcome it could have. I knew the outcome of eating a bowl of lowfat popcorn with a little added hot butter and dark chocolate almonds. OUCH. Just writing that like made my laptop gain weight. The bad thing about the mistake is that it's the second time this week and it makes the my dreadmill efforts not make a difference. Ugga Bugga!

Anyway, eating the popcorn reminded me of my favorite car ever. I have to first start this story with listing the cars I've left in my path of short term favorites:

1) Used 89 Chevy Corsica--grey paint defect car (the color on the title could have read primer--really). Gave it to my grandmother because my dad said it was his and I couldn't trade it. Its air condition quit.

2) Used 93 Teal Nissan Altima--like 140,000 miles on it....when I got it, hey I was a struggling college kid. Got rid of it because it started have problems.

3) Used 98 White Honda Accord--wrecked it REAL good. Didn't like it until after it was totaled and I couldn't have it anymore.

4) fLEASED 2000 White Toyota Camary--I felt like I needed a boat license to sail this thing. I bought this one in like 15 minutes at night and just didn't realize how long five years was. Steven ended up driving it.

5) Maroon 98? Jeep Cherokee--Steven's parents took it over because we decided to try to get more fiscally responsible. Bought this one because I thought I needed more space to carry stuff. Steven ended up driving it.

6) Red 98 Saturn SC--bought this one because it was what I really wanted when I was 16 and I thought it would be great to zip into parking space and hide shopping bags in the back. Steven ended up driving this one.

7) Brownish 200? Nissan Altima--bought it off Ebay because it was a good deal and I missed my teal one. I don't think Steven ever had to drive this one.

8) 200? White VW Passat--bought this one because I like the interior light colors and I thought it was THE ONE until I got preggars and the smell made me puke. Steven ended up driving this one.

9) 2004 Black Nissan Murano--hated them at first, then liked the crossover component of it. As I walked around the new car inspection and signed off on it, someone sprayed paint nearby and it went all over my brand new car right there in the parking lot of the dealership. Fought with Nissan in Kennesaw for the last 2 months of my pregnancy until they agreed to buy it from me and sell me...

10) my second 2004 Black Nissan Murano--love it, but Steven drives it because I just had to have.....

11) my current 2008 White Nissan Altima--love it, but my favorite car isssssssssssssss: what I have yet to get which is an Infinity G20 which I'm waiting for Joey at Pye to start selling and then I can buy it.

So, I got my first car at 17 and sixteen years later, I have had 11 cars! Steven says that we aren't trading anymore. But, how does he know I won't find my the car that will make everything seem right? **Shallow laugh**

So, if I had to choose from the eleven cars, each one has reasons it could be my favorite--

1) Corisca--got me to and from some of my first jobs, hauled my precious sister who was the most patient person in the world around, as well as my sweet cousins Anna, Amy and Phil on some afternoons from school

2) Altima--the interior was so soft

3) Accord--the airbags saved my life in a crash where I was hit head on twice while sitting still and the other person was going like 60 mph

4) Camry--NOTHING, hated it

5) Cherokee--first SUV

6) Saturn--fun to drive

7) Ebay Altima--great experience

8) Passat--great insides, "Your bootlid is open." The German factor wore off!

9 & 10) Murano--lots of fun ride to vacations, it's just a sexy car LOL

11) current Altima--has lots of buttons to press inside, the blue tooth is interesting, the color is good, the trunk is big

So, there, my I'm so promiscuous when it comes to cars. It kinda makes me feel bad.

Look at the path of favorites! YIKESEE!

Production Notes and Reality Shows

I'm not writing this entry about reality shows because I necessarily heart them, but I do feel like being the devil's advocate on some things regarding reality shows.

Okay, most people say, "reality shows are anything but reality". Yes, they are right. However, here's two things about that statement: you have to watch them often to really be able to say that and YOU WOULDN'T watch it if it were true reality.

Case in point, "my reality show" yesterday (and it would be a bit more exciting because of a couple of very short moments) would have run a camera crew off and had a TV set begging for a power outage.

Yesterday started with waking up and deciding that I wished I was a good little sleeper. It's actually a ritualistic thought I have when I wake, "man, I wish I slept so deep and so long I felt like I had been elsewhere" and "gosh, let me calucate the less than seven hours I get on daily basis." See, you would have already turned the channel.

The upcoming happenings are even worth fast forwarding to, but here goes. After my B-ah session about sleep, I decide to do 30 on the dreadmill.

Steven leaves for work. I'm sure before he left, he reminded me of what times I needed to take Libby places and not to spend any money. Oh, here's an exciting question I answered, "is my tie tied too short?"

Now, hang on to your seats, it finally picks up pace as Libby wakes up.

Of course, her usual waking is that, as mentioned many times before, of someone directly off the battlefield beginning combat from mid sleep. She enters with a wail, "IIIIIIIIIIIIIWWWWWWWWWWaaaaaaannnnntppppppaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnncccccccccakes." Of course, the only way to stop the wailing is to either do it or respond with something that will spawn another long wail, but with a beginning conjuntion of "BUT" and emphasis on "IIIIIII".

Seeing as how SuperNanny hasn't ever taken me up on an all accomadations stay at my house, I've decided to implement it myself and say no when not asked properly.

She and I went downstairs to eat Life cereal together. See, my reality show would have all kinds of product placement and network affilitation (i.e. SuperNanny).

She, who stomped her way down the stairs rambling a list of all things unfair that have been imposed on her, decides to not notice the slow pace at which I am taking every step. As I went downstairs, I could easily say that every single step I argued with myself that I do love summer and it's the right thing to save daycare money and spend every waking second with my darling-there's-an-obvious-reason-she's-an-only-and-I'd-have-moved-to-China-to-keep-it-that-way-but-thank-God-sbridenstine-sees-it-the-same-way daughter.

Once downstairs, sparring #2 occurred with daughter because she demands to do a marathon of her shows. She argues that she needs to learnnnnn something and that she can't learnnnnn if she can't watch: Backyardigans, Dora, Go Diego Go, Little Einsteins, Ni Hao Kai Lan, Sid the Science Kid.......and at this point I take the other side of my, "it's best for her to be home with me this summer argument" and toss it out the door.

I think of A. laying facedown on the couch and not moving until 5:30 when I can have an adult conversation with the working mate of the household about the summer decision, B. sitting in my car with the door shut so that I can just hear silence, or C. running on the dreadmill and pretending I am going somewhere.

However, I of course, enter negotionations with North Korea (or you can still call her Libby). I tell her that she can make her own shows and soon it will be time for swim lessons.

North Korea doesn't take that for an answer and says if she can't watch "ch-oweys" all day, then maybe I can just read to her all day.

I think if we were on a reality show, at this point, the camera crew would whip her butt. And, I smile at that thought.

So, we read and read and read until I hate books. It's the blunt truth of the matter.

Here's a high point for the show: I contemplated, well threw away, a copy of the Madeline book because I was SICK OF FREAKIN' reading it. I hate Madeline. Those two straight lines. bleh

After reading it five times, I didn't ever want to see it again. So, when North Korea went to get 'nudder book, MWWWWommy. I tossed it in the trash-WAY under a bunch of junk because I am well aware that North Korea will sense it's in there and then it will turn into Peyton from "Hand That Rocks The Cradle" when she's after Solomon at the end of the movie. I know my kid.

I knew I could have some silent therapeutic tossing of a book moment, but certainly it must be well hidden. So, bye bye Madeline and her dumb butt lines. That was mean. At that point, the reality show would probably bring in a shrink and do a complimentary DFACS referral.

However, it is only my IQ in danger when staying at home. It just gets lower and lower.

So, next on a real reality show, you'd see the getting ready portion of the day where I ask myself why I cut my hair so short and why haven't I gotten Libby's hair cut.

Then, we'd be off to swim lessons. The whole way to swim lessons, Libby remarks how Kaylee told her to stay away from water that she'd drown. Convinced that we are journeying to her demise in my Altima, Libby chatters the entire way about it. No matter how much I reassure her that she is LEARNING to swim so she won't ever have problems in the water, she continues.

Once at the Wellness Center pool, she thinks her role as North Korea will be accepted by Miss Sandy the Swim Teacher. What she doesn't know is Miss Sandy is France and she is not going to negotiate. It was like choir singin' satisfaction to see someone else work with North Korea. I took EXXXtra long filling out those swim papers, just to be sure I could watch North Korea concede.

After screaming, "walley" for about 15 minutes of my $19, she finally decides participate in the swim lesson Miss Sandy was progressing without her through.

That moment would have gone two ways on a reality show: 1) it would have been stretched out to the whole show or 2) it would have been about two minutes long.

Next, we go to get Steven, who can play golf on his league now but still can't lift heavy stuff, so he can pick up a box for me from school. Then, we go to Taco Bell lunch on a budget in Murray County.

Steven would only make a small appearance on the reality show because he is a man of few words and is not in the least bit a source of drama.

So, back to the two drama queens. Libby and I then go home where she assumes the role of North Korea on the topic of napping. She refuses to nap and I get sleepy commanding it. This is the point where I'd like an emergency red phone like they are rumored to have in the basement of the White House. I'd like to pick up the red phone and say, "hello, I can't do this another second of this day, help."

The nap negotiation goes on for about two hours. What else do we have to do? We can't spend money and I'll be derned if I am going to read another book.

I facebook a confession that I didn't pay daycare enough the past four years. My day 2 with Libby proves in my soul that it's HARD to do. (By the way, I love when a proper noun can become a verb...facebook).

Here's where the drama reaches about two on a scale of one to ten, ten being Nancy Grace level of drama.

I take Libby to TaeKwonDo. I miss a rejection call. What? You blinked and missed the drama, right? That's why reality tv can't be true reality. It's flippin' boring as all get out. Just writing about it makes me bored.

So, then, we go to my sister's house for supper and to take her the boxes we picked up for her.

Lastly, we go to Cremo because sbridenstine was dying for a chocolate soft serve. That's how I KNOW we are opposites. I do not like ice cream. I would never drive across town for it and certainly not chocolate flavor. Yuck.

Finally, we get home, try to negotiate with North Korea that it's bedtime.

I talk on the phone with a friend for about an hour and it's night time.

Of course, reality tv would have stopped at the pilot and edited out 90% of that day, don't cha think?

What Makes Me Cry

If you know me well, you know I am not one to show my emotions with tears. You can cry in front of me and I'm your rock, I'm the one to hear you out and pray for you a ton, but chances are, no matter what, I won't cry with you.

It's not that I don't think what you are crying about is unworthy, it's not that I think you are stupid for crying, I just am not a co-cryer. Steven is just the opposite. If you cry, he'll probably tear up about it with you. My sister will not only cry with you, but she'll cry FOR you. Why she'll cry about an email forward that she herself has verified to be an urban myth. She's very in touch with that side of her emotions.

I don't know why I don't tear up easily or feel the urge to cry with others. It's not that I don't ever cry. I cry, just not a lot, not with others and it's a rare hap. Usually, it's more that I'm angry about something that brings about the cry rather than sad about something. It's like when I reach a point of crying, it's that I've finally had to concede that I can't fix something. It's almost like a battle between two worlds when I have to finally let go of the hope and hang on to the desperation for a period that is crying. If I had to list all the things that could make me cry, it would be numerous. If I list all the things I'd let make me cry, it'd be in the single digits because to really give up and cry about something is something of a concession I can't remotely own. The single digit list would be mostly comprised of people in hopeless situations (spriritual, health, financial wise, etc).

However, there's this book that makes me cry. And Honey, if you've never cried with a book, Lawwwww help you! I've loved this book for four years. I've bought it for a few others when their child entered kindergarten, son got married or had a special birthday.

Rarely can I make it through the book. I actually keep it on a shelf so I don't even have to look at the cover because it tears me up. It's a text that breaks me. The illustrations, however, are amazing, too. It gets right through my tough game face and bores right to the core of my soul. I HAVE to share the text with you because I can finally read it and not SOB through it.

The book is written by Karen Kingsbury and is titled, "Let Me Hold You Longer". It's one of those...............delicious books.

Here's the text, hopefully I won't end up in copyright jail. I'm not claiming as my own text, but won't deny it captures my feelings and makes me face the uncontrollable concept of passing time.

Long ago you came to me,
a miracle of firsts:
First smiles and teeth and baby steps,
a sunbeam on the burst.
But one day you will move away
and leave to me your past,
And I will be left thinking of
a lifetime of your lasts....

The last time that I held a bottle
to your baby lips.
The last time that I lifted you
and held you to my hip.

The last night when you woke up crying,
needing to be walked.
When last you crawled up with your blanket,
wanting to be rocked.

The last time when you ran to me,
still small enough to hold.
The last time that you said you'd marry
me when you grew old.
Precious, eimple moments and
bright flashes from your past--
Would I have held on longer if
I'd known they were your last?

Our last adventure to the park
your final midday nap.
The last time when you wore your favorite
faded baseball cap.

Your last few hours of kinderarten,
those last days of first grade.
Your last at bat in Little League,
last colored picture made.

I never said good-bye to all
your yesterdays long passed.
So what about tomorrow--
will I recognizeyour lasts?

The last time that you catch a frog
in that old backyard pond.
The last time that you run barefoot
across our fresh-cut lawn.
Silly, scattered images
will represent your past.
I keep on taking pictures,
never quite sure of your lasts...

The last time that I comb your hair
or stop a pillow fight.
The last time that I pray with you
and tuck you in at night.
The last time when we cuddle
with a book, just me and you.
The last time you jump in our bed
and sleep between us two.

The last piano lesson,
last vacation to the lake.
Your last few weeks of middle school,
last soccer goal you make.

I look ahead and dream of days
that haven't comet o pass,
But as I do, I sometimes miss
today's sweet, precious lasts....

The last time that I help you with
a math or spelling test.

The last time when I shout that yes,
your room is still a mess.
The last time that you need me for
a ride from here to there.
The last time that you spend the night
with your old tattered bear.

My life keeps moving faster,
stealing precious days that pass.
I want to hold on longer--
want to recognize your lasts...

The last time that you need my help
with details of a dance.
The last time that you ask me for
advice about romance.

The last time that you talk to me
about your hopes and dreams.
The last time that you wear a jersey
for your high school team.

I've watched you grow and barely noticed
seasons as they pass.
If I could freeze the hands of time,
I'd hold on to your lasts.

For come some bright fall morning,
you'll be going far away.
College life will beckon
in a brilliant sort of way.
One last hug, one last good-bye,
one quick and hurried kiss.
One last time to understand
just how much you'll be missed.
I'll watch you leave and think how fast
our time together passed.

Let mehold on longer, God,
to every precious last.

What'd you think??? What makes you cry??? Have you ever cried with a book???

Oh, No It Jus' Di'iint!

I got a new treadmill, which will be referred to as a dreadmill from here on out.

Top 3 Reasons I call it a dreadmill:

1). I actually comtemplated when Lent was so I could give it up...missed that, plus I hadn't even started using it. I was like, "Lent is already passed....oh, no it jus' di'iint."

2). The delivery people delivered it and set it up a week and a half ago. I didn't figure out it didn't work until like 2 days after that. I was like, "broken...oh, no it jus' di'iint." The motherboard was blown. It's brand new. How could that be that I got a defective dreadmill?

3). A new one got delivered and set up today. It only burns like a 60 calories on a short run. PLUS, if you're not on it, it's not burning. I think that's a ripoff. Of course, 60 calories made me say, "oh, no it jus' di'iint."

Maybe tomorrow, I'll "suit up" and try again.

When I Grow Up..........

Remember when you were little and you'd think, "when I grow up...". Well, I remember what I thought when I was little, not that they were lofty or even productive aspirations....I used to think, "when I grow up........."
1). I'm going to go to Six Flags without planning it.
2). I'm going to eat only things I like for meals.
3). I'm not going to worry about anything.
4). I won't have to mind any grown ups.
5). I'll go on vacations once a month.
That's about all I remember thinking. I'm sure I thought of other things, but those are all I can really remember. It's funny what actually ends up happening when you "grow up." You don't go to Six Flags, if you do, you plan NOT to go back. You eat things because they are healthy and you want to live longer, thereby eating things you don't like. You worry constantly. At least, I do. I worry that I'll let someone down mostly. I spend a majority of my time "minding" other grown ups. My livelihood depends on that. I don't go on vacations once a month--others might like a vacation FROM me once a month, however. I just think it's funny how you have the thoughts of adulthood being freedom from anything when it's actually freedom from nothing. Isn't that weird? I don't know, I think it's weird. It was just a thought I had today. I realized how I work in order to play, I respond to things in order to please, and derned if that's not adulthood in a nutshell.

Here's a little snippet of Libby's latest...

Water Cooler Talk

My friend, Kendra, and several of us were talking one morning before school about the Bible Study Kendra was doing in her Sunday school class. I've really wanted to do the study, but I am still working on "Conversation Peace." The study she is doing is from "Fireproof: Your Marriage." She said the topic of marriage vows came up and the question was presented: "What's the most difficult vow to keep?" So, of course, five of us women in a room with 5 minutes to hash that thought out, debated as to whether it was "in sickness and in health," "for richer or poorer," "'til death do us part"......At the moment, I thought, "How could 'in sickness and in health' be a problem?" I mean, being the somewhat lover of "stuff," I got the point of richer or poorer.....And Lord knows, 'til death do us part' can give anybody the hmmmm's. Well, I've found out the "in sickness and in health" part---somewhat....

Saturday, my sister alerted me (I've trained her well from a young age) that there was a MAJOR sale at a stationary shop downtown. I mentioned going to the sale to Steven and seeing how he was indifferent, I thought he shouldn't go because that would be distracting to me. He said he'd rather just go home and get some things done. Of course, I thought about it for all of five seconds and as soon as we were back in town, I took Steven home and Libby and I were on our way to the sale. The store, as all good things in Dalton do, closed at noon. I didn't make the sale. I decided to take Libby on some errands to give Steven a break from us. I also wanted to get my car cleaned, gas filled up, and then possibly go to the store. I felt like a "mad checker" of all the things on my list.

When Libby and I returned home, Steven was visiting with his parents. The kitchen looked rather spiffy....or Swiffey... =) I noticed Steven didn't look super comfortable and he said he wasn't. He said he moved some of the kitchen chairs to sweep the floor---STOP, he doesn't really do housework on a regular basis and I have NO idea what possessed him to clean it like the health department was coming---and he must have turned his back wrong. Well, he just finished other tasks he had on his list that must have been titled: "How To Injure Yourself To The Point Of No Return."

The day progressed and he got worse. He couldn't stand without assistance. Then, he couldn't walk without assistance. Finally, Sunday rolled around and he couldn't get out of bed without just falling to the floor like a fish out of water. I called the on call number for our doctors and my doctor was on call. She was very compassionate and called in a muscle relaxer, an anti inflammartory and told him to take some Hydrocodone we had from a dental experience. Now, at this point, I flashed to the scene in "Father of the Bride 2" where the wedding planner gets very loopy on some muscle relaxers and thought, "Ohhhh, nooooo." Once he got the meds in, my cousin, who is a Neuromuscular Therapist, came over to see if she could work on his back. Nothing worked. She advised him to get checked with his doctor.

Night rolled around and Steven said, "I have to pee. I can't move. I want to go to the Emergency Room. I would go, if I could get up." I said, "okay, we'll have to call 911." That was definitely with some dread as we've called 911 in the past few months for a "skunk-fire alert," and a few "neighbor's dogs are driving me crazies." Nonetheless, I really didn't want him to pee on my toile comforter, so 911 it was. I called my sister to send Rodney to see if he and I could move Steven, but we couldn't. My sister took Libby with her and there we were waiting on 911. Finally, they arrive. They call the fireman to help with getting Steven into a chair so they can lower him down the two flights of stairs. At this point, I hate the builder that put the master bedroom on the second floor, I hate myself for buying this house with a bedroom on the second floor and I can't believe it feels like an episode of Springer where "Fattest Person Ever Gets Cut Out Of Their Bedroom." I have no idea why that came into my head because Steven is tall and his back injury is defintiely not a result of being a candidate for Springer.

As the emergency chair thing was being lowered down the stairs and he was wincing in silence, I see him motion for everyone to stop. He looks up at me, now obviously, I'm thinking he's going to give me a profound word like where the benefits card is or an I love you and thanks for sticking with me in sickness and health....But. No. He says, "where are my blue underwhere?" I'm like, "oh, yeah, you had to pee, did you pee on yourself, oh noooo." He says, "no, Carolina plays tomorrow and I have worn them everytime they won and I want to make sure I have them for tomorrow's game." Okay, that's when I got the "in sickness and in health" frustration. Are we in dire times here or are you, I mean, I don't get it. You are being hurled down the stairs in a yellow and black straight jacket chair by 9 or 10 people and you stop them to ask about your superstitious UNDERWEAR?!?!

We get to the hospital. He gets a muscle relaxer shot in the back. He gets a pain killer cocktail in the vein. He is told to work his way through the pain. That was the point that if he could have lifted his superstitious leg he'd have kicked the super smart A doctor, but he couldn't, so he didn't. Finally, they give us "Leave Papers" and we are on our way. He can stand, but reluctantly. BTW, that was 5 hours in the ER.

Monday rolls around. We'd had a rough weekend and not great sleep in that it was from about 3 to 8, interrupted. Around noon, Sanna calls to tell us she didn't take Libby to daycare and needed to bring Kaylee and Libby over while she went to a meeting at Kaylee's school. Steven continued to feel like "nervous" about his back. He worked from his laptop in the same chair that apparently amputated his back muscles.

Tuesday (today) arrives. I told him we needed to call his doctor to find out if he is supposed to be active as the ER doctor advised for the back strain diagnosis or be resting as the "Leave Papers" said to do. Also, I wanted to know if we needed to get the pain killers filled or if he shouldn't need them and how long he should need the muscle relaxers and anti-inflammatory meds. So, I call the doctor and leave a voicemail with his doctor's nurse. If I had a statement t-shirt today, it would not say, "I HEART NURSES." She was rude, wouldn't let me finish my sentences and said, "You are JUST an ER follow up, go back to the ER tonight if you can't wait until Thursday." I kept saying, "Please, with all due respect, listen. He's a patient of Dr. Jensen's. He was instructed to follow up with his doctor, not the ER." Finally, she rudely says, "ohhh. Sorry, we still only have Thursday." I said, "By Thursday, he could be making his back worse because we don't know whether to have him active or resting. By Thursday, he could be addicted to all these meds. We need our doctor's counsel. Why are you treating us this way?" Honestly, if I had a statement t-shirt it would say, "I B-Slap Smart A's. So, WALK THE LINE." Okay, that an outburst I should have kept to myself. At the end of the conversation, I said, "Please have his doctor call us so we can explain that we need an appointment with someone responsive and compassionate. " She said, "I can't tell you he will call you back." We hung up. I wanted to cry, but I didn't have any tears left. I hate his doctor now. I called my doctor who works in the same office and explained that someone needed to pull the ER report and help us understand what direction to go. She said, "sure and we'll call you right back." In the meantime, his P.O.C. (piece of crap) doctor's staff called back and said, "we have a cancellation at 2:15, but Dr. Jensen said he's hasn't seen him in 51 weeks and doesn't know anything about an ER visit." I promise you if I could have cussed her out and not have felt badly about it, I would have. I said, "yes, he's due for a physical and hasn't had any problems. We called your office over the weekend and he wasn't on call and another designee directed the weekend's events. We will see you at 2:15." At 2:15, I'd like to rip somebody a new butthole, but I won't. Steven will see him, we will get direction and his upcoming physical will be scheduled elsewhere.

If that's how educated, patient and insured patients are treated, how are the majority of the non working, uninsured treated? Shame on them. Shame. Shame. Shame, Dr. J. and your nurse. When people are sick and vulnerable, they should at least get the minimum request of counsel for direction.

So, "in sickness and in health," it's harder than I thought.

Libby Goes To Kindergarten?

So, we've registered Libby for kindergarten with no guarantees as to whether she'll go in the Fall or not. I'd love to take her to school with me. However, I can't say I will for sure be there for the duration of her elementary career, so I've opted for her to go to her neighborhood school---if she goes.

Here's how the registration went:
We pull up to the front of the school. Mind you, I have been to this school many times as an employee of the county, but never as a PARENT. I felt very out of control regarding her education. It was weird. I felt like I was at the mercy of whatever certified breathing homosapian the county hired. I know that's ridiculous, but it's truly how I felt. What a different role to be the parent and not the teacher!

Of course, I didn't wear my name badge in or even tell that I was a teacher. Why? Not because I wanted to spy, nor because I wanted to keep it for ammo later! Only because, Libby was with me and you NEVER know what she's going to say or do; and I'd like to salvage my professional reputation as long as I can before I get "ohhhh, her parenting" gets attached to it.

We weren't sure where the registration table was, but soon we saw some rather unethusiastic folk sitting at a table. Oh, I had to bite my bossy tongue because I wanted to say, "Heeeeeyyy, teachers! Liven up!!! This is her first school experience! Come on!!!! Here's how to do it....." But, you'll be proud of me, I took a "walk of shut up" right to the table and gave our names.

The whole time I was praying Libby didn't fall out in a floor fit. She had just recovered from a Play Park fit and I felt it wasn't quite over.

A teacher walks up (no introduction by her, me biting my bossy tongue) and says, "come with me for the test". Libby snarled and remarked, "I don't do tests". Right then and there, I thought, "okay, forget it, she's not going, this is just too much." I assume a position on the wall with the other victims, I mean parents. No one talked. Five long minutes went by and out came Libby.

Her mood was no better, no worse. She spotted some treat bags. She went over to the treat bags. The whole time I was thinking, "please, no fits, no attitude, please, please." She looks through the bags and finds that they were all the same. She takes a bag and says, "'dis has SpongeBob in it. SpongeBob has a bad attitude an' my mom won't let me watch it. She'll probably 'drow' 'dis' away." I just rolled my lips in and I'm sure my eyes got huge with embarrassment.

I looked at the teacher who tested her, kept my bossy suggestions to myself and said, "could you tell me what she missed on the assessment"? She responded as though no one had ever asked that. I thought, I've probably given away that I'm a teacher. She replied that instead of cutting the heart out, Libby cut it in half. She said she got everything else correct.

When we got out of the school doors, Libby went into the horizontal fit for the playground mode. I had to tote her like a duffle bag to the backseat where I was about to either pray or scream.

Because I'd been in prayer the whole time, I decided to wedge her in the seat, shut the door, and then pray. Once she dwindled down to a low drone, I asked her to tell me about the scissors.

She said, "'duh scissors were like we have at home. I put my rest fingers in the bottom loop like you said to". I said, as calmly as I could, however my teeth were in "clench smile mode", "then, tell mommy why you chose not to cut the heart out on the lines like we've practiced for weeks." She said, "my heart was broken because I couldn't play on Play Park and so I cut it in half like my broken heart." Sigh. She's registered, we'll see.

The Blogology of the Matter

What the heck is blogology? Google it and it will have a completely different meaning than what I use it as. I think the life in my blog or my blog life is getting more difficult by the blog. Why is it getting more difficult? Usually, I just blog about my thoughts and ongoings. I just want to hang a "Closed" sign over my thoughts right now. The blogology of the matter is going to stay in my head for a while longer. Maybe in a couple of days, I'll do a great blog about Kaylee's program at school or Libby's upcoming Kindergarten year...........but, for now....sigh, I can't write. I am unbloggable.

It's Not Easy Bein' Green

Look at that title. No, I don't have a sinus infection and I'm not getting all "St. Patricksy" on ya. It's just not easy bein' green. I love that little melancholy song from Sesame Street. You see, I sorta believe that part of what makes kids born from 1975-1980 on the melancholy side of life, more times than other folks, is those darn little sing songy songs about how it's not easy being yourself.

Why shouldn't it be easy to be you? You are you. I mean, shheee, what could be easier than that? You certainly can't change it. Well, not inexpensively.

(If that paragraph didn't just SCREAM combo between a therapy session, an advertisement for Dr. 90210 and a guidance lesson in school, I don't know what does.)

And listen, if run on sentences paid the bills, I'd be rollin' in the dough faster than Publisher's Clearing House.

Anyhow, I've been running from the blogosphere avoiding blogging because....well, here's my dialogue:

ME: Who wants to hear me complain?
MYSELF: It's my blog, I can blog what I want to. And, post scriptum, DX if you don't like that I hate editing, so. I. don't. edit. ;P That was down right awful. And silly. Sorry.
I: Tone it down, Sister, you've got it good.

So, between this strange little place I'm in thought-wise and writing, I've just not had the umph.

Right about now, you're thinking, "yea, I see what you mean. Why don't you finish that conversation with yourself and then try the writing thing...."

I'll ignore your thoughts and my own, and write a little.

On complaining: Libby slept in her bed for five days in a row. Hang on Hallaleuah chorus, not yet. She slept in her bed for five days in a row about a week ago and ever since, back to the same ole same ole. That's rather disappointing as I enjoyed living like I WASN'T in a one room shacks where all events took place in the one and only bedroom. She's amazing in every other way and I remind myself, she won't wake during the night forever--maybe.

On blogging: No matter how many dern times I re-read my posts, I'll miss stuff. Re-reading takes away from my flow. That sounds like an artists' cop out for not being grammatically or syntactically strong, but seriously. So.....I'm not gonna edit no more, no more, I'm not gonna edit no more..... anymore, anymore....see, it doesn't sound as good!

On got it good: I'm very grateful for 100% of the facets that make up my life. That's why it's kinda hard to blog. In economic times like these shall I go on and on about how fortunate I am to live in a household that still has two jobs? That just doesn't feel right. I am so thankful, but at the same time, I have friends and some relatives who aren't so fortunate and it's stinky AND GREEN.

I guess that's why it's not easy........being green. ;)

Sign For Sale--Cheap, Real Cheap

Because I saw where not proofreading your work, thereby allowing grammar and spelling errors through, made some people cringe, I actually tried to slow down and not publish until I had edited my work to pieces, so here's to what I hope is an easier read.

In my sophomore year of high school, we had to give speeches. One topic we were to prepare and present a speech for was "Pet Peeves". Mine, at that time, was the penny. I felt that it could be eliminated and everything could just work from the nickle on up. Another guy reported on his pet peeve he'd inherited from his aunt which were the two pieces of bread at each end of a loaf of bread. He wanted them gone and found them to be annoying. He did however provide a creative solution in that he had a sibling that love that piece of bread and so he'd decided that his solution was located in the four walls of his very own home. Another guy, who was too cool for school and probably too old for high school, said his pet peeve was guys who flirted with his girlfriend. He got so mad when he was talking about it that he cussed and the teacher made him sit down. I think he ended with something cheesey from his seat in the back of the room like, "Don't Get Down With O.P.P.". Since those dear old days of censorship and miniscule pet peeves, I found I have one lurking in my own mind greater in value than the penny from seventeen years ago. I'll start from my now thought and back up to my new thought. Bear with me. The path begins in my very own car. Go ahead, hop in the passenger's side. Let me take you through it and to it.

Oh, hasn't the weather been lovely? Driving over Dug Gap Mountain every morning provides me with a lot of "mindless" time. Funny as it seems, at one time, I really missed having "mindless" time. That would have been the time when I lived about 3 minutes from my job. Now, I'm about 15 or 20 minutes from my job. That time is partially because of the "Red Light Parade". In Dalton, that means that you are on a five lane road with a stop light that turns red before you get to it--and that happens every 100 yards or so. Your destination that was only about ten miles away turns into a twenty minute stop and go scenerio. So, that mindless time is what I define as time where I can't multitask, a time where I don't have time to be mindless, but am forced to. On that journey around the curves, up the various inclines, through patches of fog I've come to know better than my way to the bathroom from my bed in the deep night.......I think about random things that I wouldn't even call thinking about, but just noticing the whim of a thought. Yesterday's little nuance of a thought was about this picture that I chose, purchased and have had hanging in our guestroom for a couple of years now. See it. It's right there, the colorful little thing on the plain old wall. My guest room gets no attention.

As I topped the mountain, I almost audibly questioned myself, "WHAT IN THE HECK IS THAT DOING HANGING IN A HOUSE I LIVE IN?" I then emphatically told myself that the thing hanging in that room went against everything I was really about. It states nothing I believe. The colors are okay. I really like the shiney glitter, curvey writing, and mix of fonts, but THE WORDS....oh, no. Oh, my, oh, no. They don't define anything about me. The words aren't even something I aspire for. Here's the picture upclose and personal:

Now, if they describe you to a tee than that's great. I'm glad for you. Honestly, your personality type would be exactly opposite of mine and if I had to work with you on something, you'd probably drive me batty. Equally true, I'd proabably drive you batty, too.

Here's why it's all wrong for me and mi casa:

Work --Like You Don't Need The Money: OMG. NEVER. I work like, well, not like I don't need the money. As a matter of fact, working like you don't need the money leads those of us like me who need the money and work like they do to work on your behalf WHICH ERKS THE HECK OUT OF ME! Okay, so that slipped through my mind as I drove over the mountain. As a matter of fact, I'd like to repaint that ridiculous, cutesy thing to say: "If you work like you don't need the money, you're hanging out. So, sign out and go home if you don't need the money." I bet I couldn't get all the cutesy fonts to say that. No one would buy it.

Love--Like You've Never Been Hurt: I will NEVER love like I've never been hurt. That, to me, is a sure fire way to get your tail burnt. Nope. Not this chick. I'll tell you how I'll love. I'll love like I've been hurt and your butt's lucky to still live to tell about it. (That is not just about my husband. We are happy and fine.) Sorry, it's the truth. That was so bad wasn't it. It's true though. I'm not down with loving like I've never been hurt. I've been stinkin' hurt, it's going to affect how I choose to love AND it's not going to be like I haven't.

Dance--Like No One Is Watching: bahahahahaaaaahaha. If you are dancing, you better bet somebody is watching. Maybe you should sing and only if no one is listening. That's what I'd do. The dancing--I'm not good at it, never have been, never will be. Here's how I'd repaint that: Dance--If You Can, Pick the songs if you can't.

What would have possessed me to buy that? Was it cheap? Was it the colors? Have I changed into a lesser of a carefree person? I suppose I'll think on that tomorrow as I pick up where I left off in the "Red Light Parade". Don't slam my door on your way out............:)

Not 25 Random Things, But Sorta

So, those are some random pics snagged from my old cellphone (that I'm secretly in love with). It's like visiting a broken toy and being tortured because you got something newer (IPhone), but you still love the old faithful (SmartPhone). Anyway....here's the rest of my randomness:
So Stinkin' Cute

(Wearing Her Choice Of PJ's which aren't matched and really don't fit.) She always says, "No, dont' read it, I make up my own stories, they're better.

The Love Of Our Lives

(& Libby, just kidding, we do like Ben and Jerry's, but we LOVE Libby). Passersby wanted to sit on the concrete couch to eat their ice cream, but passed it up as she screamed, "No. Miiine. My Sopa. You go down 'der wit' my daddy, sit on 'dat one."

A Cool Rainbow I Saw At Target A Few Weeks Ago

I'll tell you what I wish I had a picture of. Steven and I at the doctor's office on Wednesday. He called Wednesday morning because I had whimpered all night with my fever and achy body pains. I don't go to the doctor unless I absolutely HAVE to. He's the opposite. He goes no matter what. He's all about prevention and I'm about reaction. It was 8:30 and he told them he wanted me seen at 9. From Rocky Face, he was charted to take Libby to my sister. Libby, who was still in pajamas and doing her morning list of demands. How he was to get me to the doctor that quickley when my state was difficult because I couldn't open my eyes for my contacts and wouldn't wear my glasses because they hurt my face, I had on half a set of pajamas and my hair was in a gross top of the head rubber band. Here we were in another medical panic attack and 20 minutes from doctor time. He tells me to go get dressed and I can't believe what I wore, but it completely defined how I felt and behaved at the doctor's office. I wore my oldest jeans and a school hoodie. I left the hoodie over my head. I had on my New Balance slips ons. If you know fashion conscious me, you KNOW I wasn't feeling well by that outfit. He dropped me off in front of the office and left to take Libby back to my sister. I have no idea why she didn't just meet us to get her, but you never want to question a conversation between Sanna and Steven because as Steven says, "it's like trying to understand infinity and is impossible". Anyway, I get in the elevator and can't remember much but I refused to let anyone press the 2 because I knew I needed 3 and didn't want to wait for it to stop at 2. It was all I could do not to slide down the wall of the elevator and lay there while it went up. I get off the elevator knowing people thought I acted and looked ridiculous but I was hurtin' and panicing. When I got in the waiting room, I signed my name as "M B Cigna hurry". I slouched over to a chair, made my purse a pillow and whimpered. It was about 2 seconds and they called me back. Hmm. Wonder why? When I saw they were gonna weigh me, I broke into the blubber cry and stringed out "IwasjustherelikeamonthagocomeonnotthisstopiwannalaydownNOW." I mosied myself and my unabomber outfit (or *RIP* Thelma Dobbins outfit) in the first open room and rolled myself up in the table paper. I was cold. Every question she asked, I responded, "ouch". She finally rolled her lips in and said, "Do you have ANYONE with you?" I said something that resembled nothing and didn't require me to part my lips. She wanted to take my blood pressure, pulse, etc. I said finally as audibly as I could, "swab my frickin throat, flu swab my nose and let's get this show on the road. I'M HURTIN'. Then of course all those tests, a roll of table paper, a chest xray that sent me into the next realm of panic, and a diagnosis of bacteria with an outrageous pulse, two hours had passed and Steven had been there about an hour and a half of it. He doesn't talk. He just looks and shakes his head like he's trying to see if reasoning with me is even safe. He did laugh when I gagged and cried after the throat swab I demanded. Don't you wish a picture would have been here of that mess. No...you really don't. It took a staff of people to deal with me and my throat infection? I usually have a very high pain tolerance. Seriously, I didn't cuss, cry or scream during my child's birth. I didn't even have an epidural until the very end. Didn't cry, cuss or scream. So, what was the deal with my major episode? Hmm. I don't know.

Here are the directions I got, actually on Facebook. I never replied to the "25 Random Things About Me" meme because I figured, that's all I blog about is the randomness of me, but here goes a similar one. Oh, yeah, in typical "Phillips" fashion, I only followed the directions in a modified manner because I didn't tag nor copy anyone, and sometimes/most of the time, I went ahead and typed more than one word answers because I could because I couldn't capture the truest essence of my smartbutt, yet truthful author's voice. :)


Directions:
Type only ONE word answers. It's harder than you think!! Here is what you are supposed to do...and please don't spoil the fun...copy and paste into your own note, type in your answers and tag a bunch of people - including me.


Where is your cell phone?.....That's exactly what I was wondering.



Your hair? .........Thank-you-Brenda-Blonde! In the summer.....trashy blonde. LOL



Your father? ........Hmmm? Creative. I've prayed so hard and so diligently for him for so long that is a real area of questioning for me with my faith thing.



Your mother? .........He he heee? I'm scared she'll get me if I say what I think. So, here's my second thought, she's very funny. I LOVE her sense of humor, but I don't that side of her often enough because she stays pretty stressed out.



Your favorite thing? ...........my Target purple and black shoes



Your dream last night?....I don't sleep long enough to dream.



Your favorite drink? ...........virgin strawberry daquiri



Your dream/goal? ........... contentment



Your favorite team........Team Meleia (not a sports fan, but married to someone who loves sports enough for both of us)



The room you are in? .....Bonus Room



Your fear? ........bad news



Where do you want to be in 6 years?.....whereever I'm supposed to be, hopefully right here



Muffins? .............blueberry cheesecake



One of your wish list items?.........another Coach purse



Where you grew up? ........Dalton/Chattanooga



The last thing you did? .......rescheduled some appointments



What are you wearing?.......black and grey leopard dress and leggings (one word couldn't do this outfit any justice) ha haa. I didn't have to iron it.



Your TV?...........DVR'd "The View"



Your pets? .........pfff, the neighbor's have dogs that bark at my bedroom window incessantly, so I'll say I've had the best pet contreception since I've moved in, I struggle with the fact that I don't love my neighbor like I should, inconsiderate people WEAR me out in about 2 seconds, NO PETS--yay



Your computer? ......IPhone and Dell laptop, oh yeah there's a Dell desktop at our house that I only use to make stationary



Your life? .........it's better than I deserve



Your mood? ........tenative, reluctant

TTFN and sorry for exposing you to a bunch of randomness.

Sympathy Not Required

Oh, where to even begin? It's like I'm finding myself to be less interested in writing about "Life With Libby" or "Life With Meleia". It's cyclical and cynical in nature. She whines, I find myself with an inner voice that is somewhat on the whiney side of life, too. I get blah about something and then find myself behaving like an ingrate. Case in point:

1). I think I'm coming down with something. I don't want to tell McDaDa because he'll say, "*call in something". *Say those quotes in your best Steven voice* That will lead to me sitting for hours in Mae Johnson's office around things only a third world country could produce cough wise. I think I'll continue the secret slip of the Airborne and water.

2). I went to the eye doctor today, which is probably where I got exposed to something horrid that I'm in progress of catching. Actually, let me backtrack. I made an appointment back in December with the eye doctor I've been going to for 14 years. It was a two month wait. Worse than that of a local dental cleaning. Anyway, I even worked at that eye doctor in college. I got a message on Sunday (?!) that a family emergency occurred and they didn't know when he'd be back. Of course, I suddenly flash forward to the possibility of an upcoming "Dateline" where a sketchy optometrist.....My mind can really get me worked up. Well, to go back a few years ago....I decided not to go to Chattanooga to him and to go local. I got tangled up with some psycho young doctor who said I needed special tests because something must be behind my eye pushing on it. That sent me in to a medical panic attack. Me and panic attacks go way back. So, I get to the new doctor today with Libby in tow. Think 'Erin Brockovich' minus the trampy clothes and skinniness. I can't get anything done trying to manage her. I felt like I'd been shook the entire exam because not only was I in my panic attack mode, but she was trying everything she could to drive me off the edge of the partial sanity to which I was hanging. I had to whisper the story of 3 Bears while telling if "1 is better than 2 and what about 5 and 6".....Anyway, I found out I was wearing a contact on my right eye that was twice the prescription I really needed. Only in Meleia Land would you walk around half blind and not even notice your headache and bumping into things because "Life With Libby" is so intense. --Keep opinionated thoughts that I'd normally post here to preserve what's left of partial relationships.--

3). I'm on Winter Break which translates to Teacher Doctor Appointment Week. Tomorrow I have a dental cleaning. It should feel great with a sore throat. If I reschedule, I can get a cleaning in 15 months. I'll suffer through a strep cleaning as to wait that long and then be griped at for the condition of my teeth.

4). Valentine's Day Was: Cry.

Enough Said. Sympathy Not Required.

Things I Heart

People who don't work in a school LOVE to hear stories of things kids do. Since I've been in the school environment basically my whole life, kid happenings become someonewhat commonplace. There are a couple of stories, however, that I Heart:

1). This first snipit happens to many people who teach in the Hispanic population. A child wrote on her paper, "I Love Jesus". Ohhhhh, you have thoughts of heaven, harps and much more. However, it's Hay-sus.

2). Doing a character education/social studies lesson in my first grade class like eons ago: Me: Class, I want you to write a note to your friends around the world on the computer screen picture paper about peace and cooperation. Maria wrote, "You wanna peace of me? Then, cooperate."

So, those are a couple of stories I Heart. Of course, I also heart my faith, family and just about anything chocolate!

I'm writing this post at 5:52 a.m. That's lovely and just my style. I would need to get in the shower in 8 minutes. However, it just plagues me that I haven't blogged. Nothing has really interested me, so I've spared you "empty talk". I suppose you could look at it as no blog is a good blog?! Well, I'd be completely ignoring life if I didn't tell you things "I Heart" so that was today's post. Maybe the husband I Heart will change my background this time for me. I do not Heart the pastel snowflakes that seemed great at the time I chose them.

What's something you heart?

1 New Text Message

Boy. Don't cha' just love when you get the old "1 New Text Message" prompt on your cellphone? It's exhilarating, right? We won't even talk about the experience of having it say like "12 New Text Messages". There's not a flashing font available to capture the moment of that. Well, I was in conversation with another teacher this morning when I got the "1 New Text Message" signal on my phone. Seeing that it was from McDaDa (aka Steven), I knew it must be great. Besides a couple of friends, my mom, and my sister, my text messages decrease when school is in session. Not to mention, I NEVER get a text from McDaDa. So, what could this glorious occassion be that I, wife of ten years, mother of a baby born on his birthday, possibly have done to have earned the excitement of "1 New Text Message"? Jump up and down for me, this could be a turning point in my life. I almost couldn't even continue my conversation with my colleague because I just had to pause to check it. Oh, I couldn't hardly contain myself, I felt a smile of something great just coming across my curious face. The anticipation of posssibly a dinner invite, a good job on your diet, a get up so early and go-get-it attitude pat on the back....The flute medley was just a-startin'. Here's the message....brace yourself, oh if it had only had a picture for what could possibly be within this text:

1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE

from Steven

Jan 30, 2008 8:23 a.m.

LB has acted like absolute sh...t the last 2 am's and as far as I'm concerned doesn't deserve any privileges. She's always going to be a brat if we let her get by with it.

Quite possibly, Alec Baldwin could have just done the voice over for that one. If you have seen that, YouTube him screaming at his kid on the phone.

Now, now. Steven doesn't raise his voice, nor does he cuss.

So, the flute medley of promises to come subside and Bon Jovi's "Shock To The Heart" song suddenly take over. Gah. What's a girl to do with that?

Not just, sh...t, but "absolute sh...t". Is that like a number value that can't go negative because it's the absolute? And, how far is McDaDa concerned? Like does he have the vote of the common citizen or that of the electoral college? 'Cause at times, it sho' does seem like the United States of your Himness.

What more privileges can I take away from her? She basically just exists and is four. I won't even address the last line. What do we think about the LB part? Like did I need her initials to know he was ranting about the only other resident in the household.

I felt like my mom when she was at work and my sister and I would call her because we were in the middle of a knock-down drag-out. There was nothing she could do. She was at work. The fact that Sanna was chasing me in circles from the back deck through the house and locked me in my dad's room with the phone while she threatened my life just wasn't appealing enough for anyone to come to my rescue. Not to mention we were in Chattanooga at Dad's and she was at work---IN CALIFORNIA.

Oh, my. Let's see shall I sit on the edge of my seat awaiting the end of my Friday work day so that I could ref a fight with only one of the fighters? In this corner of the ring, weighing in at 42 pounds, we have LB. In the other corner.......he's at work, or possibly in the car, texting his wife. It's what I'd refer to as a therapuetic text.

I don't know what more to do. I've read and implemented SuperNanny toddler years' chapters, talked to the pediatrician, prayed, and I'm out of options. Oh, wait, (do your best mock my husband voice for this line), "As far as I'm concerned, no body deserves to co-exist in this house because they're acting like /absolute sh...t/".

You know, I used to wish for texts from him, maybe I didn't know what I was wishing for.

TTFN (TaTaForNow)

Let's Give 'Em Something To Blog About

I always took comfort that if something tragic should happen, the service workers won't be looking at your messy whatever (paramedic...undies, fireman....cleanliness, etc.). That's a lie. I'll tell you why that's a lie momentarily.

So, we went to dinner with Sanna and her husband's family in Chattavegas around 4 this afternoon.

When we returned home around 7, the minute I came in the door, I was like, "Steven! Come quick. There's a weird burnt smell and a haze."

Waited. Waited. Ticked off, but more than ticked, I was puzzled.

So, rather than go look for him, I decided to figure it out myself. OR. SO I. THOUGHT.

I told Libby to stay put at the kitchen door while I checked the house out. Needless to say, she didn't. She went on to the bathroom to, well, do #2. That means I couldn't beg, pay or bribe her to get out of the bathroom from the hour long ritual of handwashing, singing in the mirror, refolding the drying towels, etc.

Steven had gotten out of the car and instead of coming inside, he went outside to fix the exterior lighting timers. Ill that in life's toughest moments, I'm like a one legged man in a butt kicking contest, I go through the house downstairs, every room, every closet, upstairs, the same routine. I was freaking. For one reason, I'm a neat freak and didn't want anything to smell bad and two, the place could be burning down any minute.

I couldn't figure it out. I called my mom. She said to call the fire department. I tried to get Libby out of the bathroom so that we could locate Steven to get his take on things, but I couldn't get her out of the bathroom. At this point, I'm ticked at Steven, puzzled with the smell, and aggrevated with Libby. As my Granny would say, "PLLLLease. Somebody. Plllease. Jus' please."

I decided that it would be embarrassing for a firetruck to come with lights all on with sirens when we don't see actual smoke or have any reason to believe there is a fire. When Steven finally came inside, I said, "get a load of the overwhelming smell and not the one Libby probably produced in the the bathroom because she's been in there long enough to douse the place in Febreeze." He said, "yeah, it's bad under the house, too." I handed him the phone and said, "This is a you thing. I'm going to give Libby a bath. This shouldn't take both of us to remedy." I pried Libby from the bathroom and headed upstairs.

Upstairs, I shifted the laundry, and ran bath water. Steven comes up and says that the fire department wanted the house vacated due to the smell until they got there to check it out. Now, this vacate order comes from a man who, while employed by the local hospital, refuses to imposition perfect pregnant stranger women dragging IV's by the "No Smoking" sign smoking cigarettes in front of the hospital doors. He won't even tell them it's a smoke free campus or make them feel badly about the stinch they are subjecting others to, much less the health hazards they are posing. So, when he tells us to vacate the place........I just looked at him like....right. Well, he finally vacated us to the car and we moved out to the driveway so we could have the car running while we waited.

Not one, but 2 huge lights going, sirens sounding engines came and about 12 volunteer fire department cars/trucks with lights flashing came, too. Every one of the 10-15 men scoured our house inside and out about 10 times. They could smell it, but didn't see a haze. They questioned us and even Libby. Did we do anything out of the norm this afternoon, did Libby throw any toys up into the lights, etc.

They told us to remove all the Glade plug ins and not to use them. They told us not to leave the iron plugged up. However, they couldn't tell us what the smell was.

About the time they were wrapping things up, my sister shows up with her camera. She decided to request a photo op. I'm thinking, "My house could be about to blow up, I have been evacuated and you are getting Libby out of my car to get her and Kaylee's pictures with the fireman?!" Next thing you know, she'll be asking to honk the horn on the fire truck and take a station tour.

Okay, the part about "service workers don't comment on your mess." Whatev. They told us that the filters needed changing. I've been busy. They were last changed on December 9th. What's the smell, people?! So, tonight, I am here with a smell that I/we/they can only conclude is a skunk. Cry. Here's some pictures of a few of the nice fireman who may find themselves back over here at 2 am, compliments of my sister:

Right here.

Us: Liiiiibby. Look right here. Right here. Smiiile. Pleeease.
Her:

Why does she think smiling is that gesture something similar to Gilbert Godfrey's face?

Us: Liiiiiibby. Look at the camera. Come on. Right here. Look. Right here.

Why won't she look at the camera?

Finally!
Happy Thursday!

A Letter To My Body? From McLoser To Hot Mess

My sister recently said that because I was so high strung about things and clumsey that I was a "hot mess". I, of course, said that a "hot mess" is an oblivious someone who actually looks good while existing in a constant state of disarray. Therefore, I am not a "hot mess" because I don't look good, I'm organized and well aware of the state in which I operate. I finished with the fact that she needs to quit watching the show "Chelsea Lately" because she doesn't pay attention enough to completely gather the context in order to correctly apply latest lingo. She then called me a prude. I took it. I am.

So, what's with the McLoser title. If I am going to correct someone else about using the latest lingo, isn't "McLoser" an oxymoron? Before I go forward with the McLoser part, I have to back up to another moment which is entitled, "Letter To My Body". Gosh, I should make this post invitee only, but then who would I invite? No one ever comments. Ooooooo. Maybe no one reads this and I can totally nail the 'more than you wanted to know' tone.

Eeeiii---where the heck did all that come from? Back to my 5--readers that is.

Okay, so in the summer, I have no idea how I did it, but I stumbled upon a site that someone blogged an entry called, "Letter To My Body." I thought, "now there's a frickin letter I could rant all the way through". Then, I realized that if you don't like yourself, you won't really do something good for yourself. I decided I was in no frame of mind to write a letter to my body. (Not that the cyber world was waiting for it.) Now, being the observant chick I am, I could definitely write a letter to someone else's body, but not mine. Ugh. I would like to think I could fully embrace the title, "hot mess" and relish in a total "love letter" state of being with myself. But, no. Not me.

So, here's the thing, I read through the letters that these ladies had written to their bodies. They were so happy with their post pregnancy pouch because it reminded them of the blessing they had in a child. They loved their blah, blah and blah because blah, blah, blah. See, I go blurry when someone tries to remind me of the old, "Be thankful you have....you could be....". When you are as grouchy as me about your body, you don't want to be thankful. Somewhere, deep inside, you really just want to get mad enough to remedy the problem. But, again, you can't stay mad at yourself because you wouldn't do anything for someone you don't like, right? Well, I probably would because I am just retarded like that. But, let's stay in the moment and the "norm" area of the population when going along with my blanket assumptions.

So, here we are at McLoser. My wonderful colleagues have decided to do a "Biggest Loser" movement. I could care less about the winnings, hate competitions, but I'm in it. How could you look like this and not be in it? Ouch. That was a line from what a "letter to my body" might have said. I am deliberately making strides to watch what I eat and incorporate exercise because the one element that brings me into focus is the fact that four others on my McLoser team are counting on me to try. Oh, yeah, in my letter to my body, it would end with this" PS-Thank you Cigna for not paying for lapband for me. I'll see you at the heart attack table, EOB in hand.

There, I am a McLoser aimed for Hot Mess. We'll see.